


A Moment in a Hurricane

by Elthadriel



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Blessed Are The Peacemakers, Hurt/Comfort, Iris is a good girl, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 02:49:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18983689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elthadriel/pseuds/Elthadriel
Summary: Arthur's only chance of escaping the O'Driscolls' camp lies with the still half wild horse he found up in the mountains.





	A Moment in a Hurricane

**Author's Note:**

> What's even the point of writing about cowboys if you aren't getting emotional about horses?

Blood filled his mouth as he bit down too hard on the inside of his cheek to avoid screaming as he dug the red-hot iron into his shoulder. He wheezed, hunching over gasping desperately for air through the all encompassing pain.

At least his shoulder was temporarily blocking out the pain from the rest of his body.

His left arm wasn’t responding right and felt like a dead weight at his side. His breath went shallow as panic gripped him; pain he could deal with, but fear of being permanently put out of action was enough to make his blood run cold.

What if they’d done something to him that wouldn’t heal?

He needed to keep his head, needed to stay calm and in the moment. He didn’t have the luxury of worrying about his injuries right now; he needed to get out alive and let people who actually knew what they were talking about worry about them for him.

He stood, the whole world tilting, pain spiking thought his head like his skull had been split open. Everything was white for a second, and then he was back, slumped against the wall of the basement, chest heaving, each inhale and exhale agony; he must have broken some ribs.

His whole body hurt.

He was still tempted to take stock of his injuries, but he didn’t even know where he would start. The bullet wound was cauterised, everything else would have to wait.

He needed to move.

There was something wrong with his knee, in the haze of everything the O’Driscolls had done, he couldn’t remember what had happened to it, but it nearly buckled under his weight. He was going to have to take this slow.

He staggered up the steps, trying to keep quiet, but his moments were clumsy and sluggish.

People were  talking, but he couldn’t get their words straight enough in his head to know what  they were saying. He stood frozen on the stairs for too long, brain looping on needing to escape but unable to break it down into steps.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to clear his head enough to think.

He needed… He needed…

There was a buzzing in his head like the sound of water crashing over the side of cliff and it overwhelmed the sound of his own thoughts.

He could still taste blood in his mouth.

He was going to die if he couldn’t figure this out.

He needed a plan.

He breathed deeply, despite his protesting ribs.

He needed to get back to camp. To do that he would need Iris or, he swallowed down more panic at the thought, or another horse if she wasn’t still here. He’d also need a gun; if they followed, he  needed to be able to defend himself.

He squinted into the darkness, trying to make some sense of the layout of the camp, but his vision kept shifting into one dark smear. Jesus, he wished he could just sit down for a moment.

The O’Driscoll that had been talking walked past the stairs, and he shrank back into the shadows and then, finally making a decisive move, followed. The second they were around the corner he wrapped an arm around his throat and squeezed.

It was clumsy with only one arm, but revenge was always a reliable motivator, and he pushed  through his own body’s protests. Finally, the man stopped moving.

He wasn’t even carrying a shitting gun. Arthur almost panicked, he could feel it building in his chest, like the first time he’d been alone on a job that had gone wrong. He wasn’t a goddamn kid, he refused to be beaten like this.

He took a couple of slow  agonising breaths. Iris was his best bet, hell they might not even have taken his guns off her saddle.

Still being mindful of his knee he slunk back around the building, peering out over the camp again.  Everything was still blurry, but his eyes had adjusted a little more to the light and he could make out rough shapes.

Iris at least was an easy silhouette to spot, shining white even in the pale moonlight. She was tied up with the other horses, shifting nervously on the spot, tugging at the post. She was still uncertain of the others in camp when he wasn’t with her, alone here she must be terrified.

There was too much open space between him and Iris, and there were still more O’Driscolls. He could hear at least two over by the fire but looking in their direction, into the firelight, caused his head to split and left him fighting down nausea from the pain.

They’d really done a number on him.

There was a small, half collapsed building beside the horses, if he looped back around the building he’d been held in, he could avoid most of the light from the fire, and it was a shorter stretch back into cover. He’d just have to hope the guards were more focused on making sure no one got in than him getting out.

Walking hurt, moving at anything approaching a jog was like getting shot all over again. He couldn’t even make a guess at where the O’Driscolls were, they could have been standing a few feet from him and he probably wouldn’t have noticed. He could push down the pain enough to move, or he could be aware of his surroundings, both was impossible.

He stumbled across the open space, heart thudding in his chest, exasperating his headache. There was no sudden yells and he wasn’t tackled to ground which all felt like strong evidence to support that he’d made it without being seen.

He tumbled into the shack, over a collapsed pile of bricks, slid to the ground wheezing.

He could just stop, sit here, wait for the O’Driscolls to find him. Sure, they’d probably tie him up again, torture him some more, and Dutch would end up riding into another trap, but at least he wouldn’t have to move anymore, and that almost seemed like an acceptable trade.

He shoved himself back to his feet, hissing through his teeth at the pain.

There were a half dozen crates in the building with him the closest filled with food, the second with moonshine, then more food, then--

He recognised the handle of his shotgun, the self-indulgent engraving along the butt. He almost cried in relief; he was owed at least a little luck.

He grabbed his equipment from the box, even his satchel and his journal were there. It was silly to be emotional over such things considering his situation, but his relief was palpable.

Finally, he grabbed a bottle of the moonshine, pulling off the cap and taking two large mouthfuls. It wasn’t much, but it might help dull the pain, even a little. He had his guns, next he needed his horse.

Iris whinnied loudly when she noticed him, rearing up and pulling more desperately against the hitching post.

He tensed, but while there was sound behind him, no one seemed particularly interested in her outburst.

He half collapsed against her, soothing her with hushed whispers as he untied her fumbling fingers.

“Easy, girl. It’s all right, we’re all right. We’re  gonna get out of here.”

She jerked her head back the moment she was loose from the hitching post, almost tearing her reigns from his hand. She was jittery, more so than he’d seen her since the first week he’d found her, eyes wide with fear, her whole body coiled ready to snap.

He kept whispering to her, but his own panic was probably clear in his voice and did little to calm her. He ran his fingers through the lock of her mane falling across the front of her face.

He didn’t have time to calm her, they needed to leave.

He hauled himself into her saddle, head spinning, and he grabbed frantically at her neck to stop himself from tumbling off the other side. He felt like he might vomit.

The only thing he wanted less than to have to move again was to be dragged back to that basement, so despite his nausea, he squeezed his heels into Iris’ sides. She barely needed the encouragement and she bolted.

She was a fast horse, probably the quickest he’d ever ridden; hell, they’d outpaced Dutch and The Count together, but this was a frantic gallop, fuelled by terror.

Arthur had practically learned to ride before he was fully walking, it came as naturally to him as breathing, but he wasn't breathing too great right now either.

She was running too fast, she wouldn’t be able to keep it up and Arthur didn’t know if he could handle it. Each collision of hoof on dirt jolted though his whole body, and with barely half his body working right he couldn’t sit right in the saddle.

He had given her too much rein and had no way of stopping her, couldn’t shorten them with one arm.

"Hey, its Dutch's dog!"  Under the bridge were a group of men lounging with their horses.

“God damnit, how hard is it to hold a prisoner?”

Arthur fumbled for his pistol, releasing the reins entirely, and with it even the pretense that he had any control over Iris. Somehow, she found even more speed.

Arthur fired into the O’Driscolls, and the cry indicating he hit something was a miracle rather than any skill; he could barely keep himself on the back of his horse there was no way he was going to out shoot anyone.

Iris wasn’t planning on giving him the chance to test his assessment of the situation; she shot past the men before they even had the chance to get on their horses.

There was the sound of yelling and gunfire from behind them, but they weren’t ready for a chase and it slowed their reaction. Iris was running so fast that delay was all they needed, the night closing in around them before the O’Driscolls could follow.

It didn’t stop them from trying.

Iris peeled off the track, charging through a thin crop of trees, gaining more and more ground on the O’Driscolls. He shoved his gun back into his holster, trying to regather her reins; she was going to hurt herself if she kept this pace up.

“Easy girl, I think we’re okay.” He couldn’t get the reins back, he was too unsteady in the saddle and  her pace was clumsy in her panic.

“Easy, easy.” He couldn’t hear the O’Driscolls anymore or see their lamps. “We’re safe.”

His head was throbbing so badly he could barely see. He needed her to stop.

A wolf howled from somewhere far off, much too far away to be a threat, but Iris was already spooked. She reared, whinnying loudly.

Hitting the ground knocked all the air out of Arthur, and he couldn’t seem to make himself pull any back into him.

Iris was still on her back legs, screeching in panic. He reached for her, stretching his arm out but she was too far for him to reach.

He tried to say her name, but he didn’t have the air to make even the feeblest of noises.

Her hooves slammed back into the dirt and for a second she was still, nostrils flared, ears flat back against her head and then she bolted, kicking up mud as she turned tail, leaving Arthur lying in the mud.

Arthur’s hand fell back to the ground, still desperately trying to take a deep enough breath to push down the overwhelming feeling of drowning. There wasn’t enough air.

He finally managed one deep breath and then he was coughing, which was somehow even worse. They would hear him, they would drag him back.

But maybe that was the best option left for him. Iris had fled, and he was struggling to manage breathing, never mind getting to his feet and dragging his broken body anywhere of use. If the O’Driscolls didn’t find him, he’d probably die. It wasn’t an unexpected death, alone in a field in the middle of some backwater state, but it was still a depressing way to go.

If they found him, at least he might stand a chance of living through it all.

The sky above him was cloudy, denying him even a pleasant view to look at as he bled out. There was the occasional break in the coverage, stars or the moon peeking through. He didn’t blame Iris for running, she’d been wild only a month before; she wasn’t built for gun fights.

He thought of Boadicea, dead back in Blackwater. Would she have got him out of this when Iris couldn’t?

He hoped Iris made it somewhere safe, he shouldn’t have brought her into this, and she’d done so well for him until now.

Arthur tried to focus on breathing. The air was heavy and unpleasant, he was goddamn sick of being this far south, but he managed a handful of breaths, finally recovering from having the wind knocked out of him.

There was the distant sound of yelling back in the direction he’d come from.

Maybe it was better to die here than in their shitty basement. The moon slipped behind the clouds again, everything going black around him.

At least like this they’d probably never find him, they could be almost on top of him and not see his prone form.

He still felt light-headed even as he remembered how to breath.

\---

He thought he must have passed out, the night was quiet around him, no O’Driscolls yelling as they hunted him down, no breeze through the long grass. He felt far away. His body didn’t feel like his own, and for a undefinable moment nothing hurt.

There was the sound of hooves on soft dirt, loud against the stillness.

Arthur fumbled for his gun, but even his good arm was slow to respond. He felt like his blood had been replaced with lead. Moving broke whatever respite he’d been granted, the full weight of the pain he was in crashing back over him.

He wouldn’t let them take him back.

Iris’s nose was soft against the side of his face, her huffing breath ruffling his hair.

Huh.

“You  came back?” He let the gun fall to the ground, lifting his hand instead to gently stroke the side of her head. “Good girl.”

She nickered, the sound far too loud this close, sending his head spinning again. This time at least he didn’t mind.

“Good girl, good girl,” He murmured. Her breath was warm against his cheek. She’d come back for him. He swallowed, and for an awful second, he thought he might cry.

He didn’t deserve her.

She’d come back for him. He kept stroking the side her face, wishing he had any real way to communicate how grateful to her he was. With her back, he had a chance.

Relief faded to grim determination.

He had a chance now, he could get out of this, but it was going to be hard, and it was going to hurt.

He tugged at her reins until she finally understood what he wanted and lowered herself down beside him.

“Clever girl.”

He got his arm over her neck, gripping on the straps of her saddle. He pulled , dragging himself up onto his side, letting out a guttural sob.

Shit that hurt.

Shit.

He panted, squeezing his eyes closed as if, by focusing enough, he could block out the pain.

All right, all right. Next his leg.

Throwing his leg over her back was easier, but he couldn’t anchor it under anything to give him more leverage for what came next.

He pulled again, trying to haul himself up over her back. He made it only a couple of inches off the ground before his arm gave way and he slammed back down, his whole body protesting the rough treatment.

Iris made a distressed noise but stayed completely still for him.

He took a moment to re-center himself. He’d done harder than this before, this was easy. He just needed to try again.

He pulled in a breath and held it. He tried again.

His body trembled with the effort, pain peaking and his vision flashing white, but he pulled himself up each excruciating inch before collapsing back down. The pressure on his ribs pulled a too loud noise from him, but his weight was more on Iris than the ground now.

He did the closest thing to kicking his heels into her sides as he could manage.  She stood up under him, and even though she moved very slowly, Arthur was dizzied by the movement. He was panting, even that small burst of effort taking too much out of him.

He was more collapsed in the saddle than sitting in it, but he was back in the saddle. His brain shorted for a second, unable to remember what the point of that agonising exercise had been.

Camp, he needed to get back to camp. Ideally before he died, or Dutch did something stupid trying to get him back from Colm.

“Good girl,” he said again, patting her neck. “Take us home.”

He squeezed his heels and she took off again.

She galloped for a long time, putting plenty of distance between them and the O’Driscolls, before she slowed to walk, taking a mile or so to regain her strength before pushing herself into a canter again.

They continued like that, Iris running as far as she was able and then walking until she was ready to run again.

Arthur didn’t even know where they where or how far from camp they were, but Iris seemed to have a direction in mind. She had at least been conscious while they’d been taken here, but it still seemed risky to trust a horse, no matter how loyal and smart she was proving to be, to lead them home.

He didn’t exactly have a lot of options however and was still too dazed by her return to seriously doubt her.

She’d ridden into gunfire at his urging, but Iris had been wild as anything when he found her and had never fully shaken off that attitude. She needed a steady hand to keep her from panicking whenever a gun went off too close, but she’d willingly faced that and worse to save his sorry hide.

“Good girl,” he mumbled.

Iris’ hooves pounded against the dirt, and Arthur’s world narrowed to the rhythmic thudding. The dark Lemoyne countryside slid past them and Arthur counted the pattern of Iris’ footfalls over and over.

He should stay focused, even if they’d lost the O’Driscolls there were plenty of other folk out there who would leap at the opportunity to jump a man in his condition, but everything felt so heavy and the steady beat of hooves was soothing.

He was so tired.

He teetered on the edge of unconsciousness, sometimes slipping just a little too far, but every time he woke Iris was still dutifully trekking across the state.

The night got darker as they travelled, until Arthur could barely see Iris’ head in front of him. He let her reigns hang loose, gripping the horn of his saddle with one hand, the other resting on the side of her neck.

Somewhere the balance tipped, and Iris was walking more than she was running. Arthur wished they could stop, but if they did, he didn’t think he would ever be able to get up again. He had no idea how far the O’Driscolls had dragged him, or even how much ground Iris had covered, he could only hope they were close.

His vision narrowed, his chin dropped down against his chest, flitting on the edge of unconsciousness again. He just wanted to sleep a little longer.

Arthur jolted, almost falling from the saddle as he tilted sideways. His heart pounded in his chest, fear coiling tight in his gut. If he fell again, unless Iris dragged him to camp by his collar, he was done. He barely had the strength to stay in the saddle, climbing back into it was far beyond him.

He was too tired to keep flirting with sleep. He needed to focus.

He wished he was further north where the cold air would have helped keep him awake, but the thick heat of the south was oppressive and heavy on his shoulders. Giving up would be so much easier than fighting.

Iris was walking again, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She was letting her head hang low as she forced herself to keep walking. He couldn’t find his voice to praise her but clumsily patted her neck.

They had to be near, the O’Driscolls couldn’t have taken him that far, they had to be close. He stared at the top of Iris’ head, willing himself to stay awake.

Iris pushed herself back into an awkward canter but slowed again after barely a few minutes.

He could feel himself slipping; even the pain felt distant now. He didn’t know how much more he had to give.

Iris’ ears flicked forward. She snorted and then they were galloping again, moving faster than they had since their initial escape. He jerked upright, body protesting, squinting frantically into the darkness, trying to see what she’d seen.

Silhouetted against the night sky, barely visible in the dark, was an oddly bent tree by the half-ruined shape of a long-abandoned hut.

He’d seen it before, ridden past it half a dozen times at least; he recognised where they were.

He dragged the dregs of strength he had left for the final stretch. They were so close, she’d carried him halfway across a state, he could keep his ass in a saddle for just a little longer.

Being so close gave her a new urgency, but he could feel her flagging. Her breath was short and sharp, and her run was getting clumsy from exhaustion. Her coat was damp with sweat, and each yard she covered felt like it might be her last.

He hadn’t urged her faster in miles and still she maintained the punishing speed, determined to get him home no matter the cost to herself.

He regathered her reigns, pulled back gently, despite his eagerness to get home; he couldn’t have her hurt herself now, not so close.

Instead of slowing she snorted and tossed her head, finding a new burst of speed. She didn’t manage to keep that up for long, letting up a little after she had apparently made her point.

The camp was so close now but instead of renewing his strength he could feel it slipping away from him. He’d come too far to fall now. Iris had almost killed herself to get them this far, he could keep it together for her.

“It’s all right, girl,” He said. It hurt to talk, his voice coming out raspy. “We’re almost there, it’s all right.”

It felt like it was more for his own benefit than hers. Maybe it was for the best she ignored his attempts to have her ease up.

They covered the last stretch as dawn started to break, Iris using the last of her flagging strength to canter the remaining miles.

She slowed to a walk as they turned up the path leading to the camp. She was panting under him, he could feel her chest heaving between his legs.

“When I can walk again, I’m gonna have to buy you all the apples you can eat,” He murmured, but only managed to get the voice for half the words.

Shit. If he passed out now after they’ve come so far.

He could see camp, the other horses grazing to the side. “Almost there, girl.”

They barely broke from the tree line before he was dismounting. He fell graceless from her back, his knee buckling before he could take more a single step back towards camp.

The sun was rising, and the bright sky was far less forgiving than the darkness. He could barely hear anything over the sound of his blood pounding in his ears.

He had never felt so utter wrecked.

There were people around him, and he could make out Dutch calling him Son, but not much else.

“I told you it was a trap, Dutch,” he said, as if being right would mean he carried any less of the consequences.

People were helping him back to his feet, and he wanted to make them stop, tell them to let him lie on the ground a minute until the world stopped spinning. Dutch was still shouting, making the pounding in his head even worse.

Panic hit him suddenly.

He grabbed at Dutch, hand closing tightly around his fancy waistcoat.

“Iris,” he gasped. “Dutch, you gotta… My horse.”

“I’ll see to her.” Charles. Thank God for Charles. He was in Arthur’s space, carefully peeling his hand from Dutch, and Arthur let him. Charles was good to the horses, he’d make sure Iris was cared for, make sure she got everything she deserved for getting him safely home.

He let himself be led over to his tent, barely supporting any of his own weight.

The relief of finally hitting his bed wasn't an easing of the pain, everything still hurt, and someone was running their hands over him, lingering over places his injuries were the worst. Despite the painfully probing hands he felt light, floating above his own body.

He didn't have to move anymore. He could stop, finally.

He turned his head, squinting past the pair of people anxiously checking him over. He could make out Iris, her coat easy to spot. Her saddle was off, and someone was brushing her as she drank greedily from a bucket of water.

Charles was always good to his word.

He would be fine, Swanson and Miss Grimshaw would see to it, and Charles would see to Iris.

They would both be all right.

 


End file.
